What's a Sociopath?
by Amiyrasmom
Summary: This little story was spawned by Harry's comment and Sherlock's question in 'Family Matters'. It's part of the Honey 'Verse. Enjoy.
1. Asperger's

**Disclaimer: Still not mine. And now the Easter Bunny is no longer returning my calls. Jerk. Someday I'll own Sherlock and Co. but today is not that day.**

**A/N: I'm still working on the Sally meets John story but this little idea was rattling around in my head insisting on being written first. Hope you like it. Let me know.**

Asperger's

Seven year old Sherlock Holmes, all knobby knees, big gray eyes and floppy black hair, sprawled on his back one of the sofas in one of the family parlours. The fire in the fireplace warmed one side of his body while the back of the sofa warmed the other. Hands tucked up on his chest and fingertips resting just under his chin he contemplated the ceiling.

What did it mean? Sherlock wondered. What those idiot doctors his father had taken him too had said? _Asperger's Syndrome._ He'd never heard of it before. His father's face had said that it wasn't too bad but not good either. What was it? What did it mean? He'd looked it up in the library but could find nothing. His father had taken the pamphlets that the doctors had given him and Sherlock hadn't been able to get to them yet.

Sometimes his father was infuriating. Maybe John would help him steal the pamphlets so they could find out what it meant to have Asperger's.

"Sherlock?" Uncle Hamish's voice came from the doorway to the parlour and his footsteps followed it into the room. They were muffled by the rugs in some spots and Sherlock liked the tap, tap for Uncle Hamish's soles on the hardwood floor.

Sherlock made an inquiring sound but didn't remove his full attention from the ceiling or the questions in his head.

"What are you doing up, child?" Hamish asked as he lowered himself into an armchair to the side of the sofa. He studied the small form before him in concern. It was after midnight, Sherlock should have been tucked up in bed.

Sherlock shot him one bored look and then shifted his eyes back to the ceiling. Really it was a stupid question. He'd never slept much. Sherlock hated to sleep; it was boring and too many things happened while he slept. Uncle Hamish should have known that.

Hamish sighed; maybe he should have left this conversation to John. His son seemed to be the only person that could get through to Sherlock when he was in this mood. John seemed to be the only person who ever understood Sherlock, actually. John could calm Sherlock when he was upset faster than anyone else in the house. Mycroft was the only other person that even came close. Even Viola and Sherringford had difficulties understanding Sherlock no matter how much they loved him.

"What's it mean?" Sherlock voice whipped out and Hamish started. He had been lost in his thoughts and not paying attention to the small boy.

"Your diagnosis, you mean?" Hamish asked already knowing that it would cause Sherlock to glare at him. Hamish smiled softly when the child did exactly that. "What do you think it means?" There was no way he was going to be caught up in an argument with Sherlock when the child refuted his explanation. He wasn't that stupid and no matter what answer he gave Sherlock would find a hole in it.

Sherlock's glare only got fiercer. "I wouldn't ask you if I already knew the answer," he bit out.

Hamish's smile never slipped. "Yes you would, Sherlock." He told the boy knowingly. "However I didn't ask if you knew the answer; I asked what you thought it was."

Sherlock frowned in thought and then turned his head back towards the ceiling. "Mother cried when Father told her," he said out of the blue. "Mycroft nodded and sighed. Harriet laughed. Aunt Cece cried too. You just shrugged. Why?"

Hamish ignored the question in favor of one of his own. "What did John do?"

"He rolled his eyes and huffed at Father. I don't understand either of you," he sounded frustrated.

"Elaborate, if you would," Hamish smirked, using one of his son's phrases for dealing with the dark haired boy.

When John said that phrase it always made Sherlock smile but now when his father said it he only rolled his eyes with a huff. "Everyone else's reactions made sense," Sherlock nearly pouted. "Father accepted it and moved on. Mother and Aunt Cece cried because they were relieved it wasn't something worse and worried about how to act now. Mycroft already suspected the diagnosis so he wasn't surprised and probably already has plans on what to do. Harriet laughed because she's never liked me and it amuses her to think that I'm damaged. You and John though," Sherlock swung his already too long legs over the side of the sofa and sat up to look Hamish in the eye. "Uncle Hamish, you and John didn't react at all how I thought you would."

Hamish smiled into the grey eyes before him. "We never do, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled. "True, neither of you do. You're not like everyone else." Then he frowned. "But I don't know why."

Hamish chuckled. "Neither do I, child, neither do I. But you're avoiding the question."

Sherlock huffed and flung himself back down on the sofa. "It doesn't mean anything," he snarled. "I'm still me. People are stupid. Borderline Asperger's Syndrome. Nearly normal. Boring."

Hamish couldn't stop himself and he laughed. "There is nothing that has ever been normal about you, Sherlock, my boy. And we wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock huffed again, ignoring Hamish. "It's not my fault everyone is stupid. I bet I don't even have Asperger's anyway. It's a stupid diagnosis. There's nothing anyone can do, it's incurable and there are no medical treatments so it's stupid. Idiotic." He continued to ramble to himself as Hamish stood up.

"Go to bed, Sherlock," he told the child already knowing the boy wouldn't. More than likely Sherlock would seek John out and the two of them would stay up for a while whispering to each other about any number of things before John finally told Sherlock that he needed to sleep. The boys had been found huddled together in John's bed more often than not since Sherlock learned how to walk. Before that John had been found on Sherlock's floor five mornings out of seven.

"I'm not tired." Sherlock said immediately.

"You will be if you don't get some sleep." Hamish warned.

Sherlock huffed and turned his back on his uncle. Hamish suppressed a laugh and left the child to his thoughts.


	2. Sociopath

**Disclaimer: I met a Leprechaun today. He promised me Lestrade if I'd give him my firstborn child. I really had to think about that one. I adore my daughter, really I do. But it was Lestrade! So I traded. Twenty minutes later Lestrade disappeared and my daughter was back. Apparently she wasn't too fond of being traded and she let them know about it. And she didn't want to live under the Earth. Darn it! Now I have to think of something else. Especially since it seems she blew up the Leprechaun hideout as she left. My little pyro.**

**A/N: To No. 88: Thanks for the review. Glad you like my 'Verse. I'm enjoying it myself. Hope you keep reading. To everyone else: Enjoy the story.**

Sociopath

Ten year old Sherlock Holmes crept down the hallways of his home in the dead of night. It had been two weeks since they'd buried Aunt Cece and Uncle Hamish and John still hadn't explained Harry's comment. Tonight Sherlock was determined to get his answer.

He quietly opened John's bedroom door and peeked in. The moonlight shone through the windows and painted John in silver. Unfortunately it also highlighted the tear tracks on the older boy's face. Sherlock felt a mixture of sorrow and triumph. He'd known John had been crying at night over the loss of his parents and he'd been proven right he only wished he hadn't. His John shouldn't ever be sad.

On silent feet he glided to the side of John's bed and placed a hand on John's cheek. "John?" He whispered. "John, wake up."

John tilted his head into Sherlock's palm and drew a deep breath before his hazel eyes fluttered open. "Sherlock?" He asked quietly. "What's wrong?"

Typical John, Sherlock mused. Always so concerned with everyone else. "What's it mean?" He asked his friend.

John blinked. "What?"

"You said you'd explain later," Sherlock told him. "It's later. Explain what she meant." He ordered.

John blinked again and stared at Sherlock in utter cluelessness. "What who meant? What's what mean? Sherlock you're going to have to explain what you're going on about."

Sherlock growled in frustration and then climbed over John onto the bed. John watched him, bemused, while he made himself comfortable and arranged the older boy how he wanted until they were both comfortable and then ruined it by leaning up on an elbow to look John in the eye. "Harry said I was a sociopath the day of the funeral. You said you'd tell me what one was but you haven't. What's a sociopath, John?"

"I'd forgotten about that," John murmured and then pulled Sherlock's head back onto his chest. "Is it bothering you?"

Sherlock struggled to look up again but John was stronger and relentless so Sherlock's head stayed where it was. "Only because I don't know what it means and no one will tell me. Father had all the psychology books removed from the library ages ago."

"Because he didn't want you looking up Asperger's and becoming upset," John reminded. "I imagine it's the same for this."

"That doesn't help," Sherlock growled and smacked John's chest. "What. Is. A. Sociopath?"

John tried not to laugh but he couldn't help himself. Sherlock was a riot when he got all pissy. "I'm sorry," John apologized even though his grin didn't diminish. "She shouldn't have called you that, you know? It's not very nice."

"I had gathered that, yes," Sherlock snarked. "Would you please just tell me what it means?"

John let out a short laugh again. "Sorry, Sherlock," he apologized again. "I like winding you up but I'll stop now. I won't tell you all the technical stuff cuz I don't know all of it and it's not really important. A sociopath is basically someone who doesn't have or understand their own emotions. They can learn to understand emotions but have difficulty applying them to themselves."

Sherlock sighed. "Harry was right then. I am a sociopath." He wasn't upset by it.

John shook his head though. "You're not."

"But you just described me, John." Sherlock pointed out.

"You did let me finish, idiot." He lightly smacked the back of Sherlock's head. "Now shut up. A sociopath doesn't care about anyone, including themselves." He paused. "I'm screwing this up. Let me see if I can remember what I read." He drew a deep breath and squeezed Sherlock tight. "Okay, got it. A sociopath cannot learn from experience. You do."

"I don't do that," Sherlock said confidently.

"Nope," John agreed. "You learn from everything whether you experience it or some else does. A sociopath has no sense of responsibility for his or her actions."

"I don't think that one's true," Sherlock said. "I take responsibility…usually."

John nodded. "They have no ability to form meaningful relationships which also does not describe you, does it?" Sherlock shook his head. "They can't control their impulses," John continued.

Sherlock snorted into John's shoulder. "That one's close."

"I don't think so," John argued. "You can control your impulses just fine you just don't. They also have no sense of morality."

"That one's close too," Sherlock commented. "I don't do bad things because you'd be angry and disappointed."

"So if I wouldn't be angry at you for stealing an apple from Mr. Fender's stand you'd do it?" John questioned.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Probably not. But not because it's wrong but because there is no need to."

"We'll work on morality later," John decided. "You are only ten after all. Next would be a sociopath doesn't change their behavior after they've been punished. That one's way off. You know better than to do the same thing twice."

"Only when you get mad at me," Sherlock disagreed. "Or when Father gets really mad. Or Mummy cries." He paused. "Right, I do change my behavior after punishments."

"They're emotionally immature." John snorted again. "That one can't be quantified. All ten years old are emotionally immature." He was rewarded with a giggle. "They don't feel guilt."

"I feel guilt," Sherlock's voice was quiet and he fingered a scar on John's arm from an ill thought experiment. The beaker had exploded and glass had embedded in John's arm when he'd protected Sherlock's head.

"Yes you do. And lastly a sociopath is self-centered. Which you definitely are but find me a kid that isn't."

Sherlock snickered and then he jerked his head up and stared at John. "You weren't," he stated.

John snorted and pressed Sherlock's head back onto his shoulder. "Yes, I was. I just wanted to spend all my time with you and I did." He sighed and settled deeper in the bed. "I'm still self-centered. I'm tired, Sherlock, it's nearly two in the morning. So go to sleep so that I can."

"Yes, John," Sherlock murmured and discovered that he was tired too.

The moonlight from the window glided the sleeping teenager and the not sociopath dozing contently on his chest in silver.


	3. Psychopath

**Disclaimer: Yes, I'm going to pout. They're still not mine. **

Psychopath

He's always known that he was different from other people. But then he'd never really thought about it much. His family was fine with him the way he was. That was all that mattered really.

Still the taunts stuck with him. They'd crop up at the most unexpected times even though he tried to delete them. Perhaps it was the repetition. The names Sgt. Donovan and Anderson and the others constables called him didn't upset him they made him curious. Why use those particular words to describe him?

_Freak_: any abnormal phenomenon or product or unusual object; anomaly; aberration or a person or animal on exhibition as an example of a strange deviation from nature; monster. Neither of those fit him. So why did Donovan call him that?

_Psychopath_: a person with a psychopathic personality, which manifests as amoral and antisocial behavior, lack of ability to love or establish meaningful personal relationships, extreme egocentricity, failure to learn from experience, etc. Years ago John had gone over the symptoms of a sociopath with him and a psychopath was nearly the only more violent. He knew that while he may exhibit some of the characteristics of a sociopath he wasn't one.

They all, the Yarders, called him one of those two names or variations of them. He couldn't understand it and he didn't want to ask John why because their Skype calls were short enough as it was.

"Sherlock!" A sharp voice intruded on his ponderings. "That beaker is going to bubble over onto your hand!"

Sherlock calmly poured the contents of the beaker into the sink and watched it bubble curiously. "That was unexpected," he murmured. "It shouldn't have reacted that way."

"Then why did it, brother?" Mycroft asked from the doorway.

Sherlock turned to look at him and frowned. "I don't know. I'll need to do a bit of research. Why are you here?"

Mycroft sighed and took off his coat before seating himself at the table. "Mummy's luncheon? Did you delete it? Again?"

"Yes," Sherlock said immediately. "I hate those gatherings. Mummy never seems to mind if I don't show up."

Mycroft shot him a dark look. "She minds. She simply knows better than to say anything without John around to talk to you." Mycroft sighed again. "You have stood Mummy up every Sunday for the past two months, Sherlock. She is not happy. I have been sent to retrieve you."

Sherlock glared at him even though he knew there was no way he'd get his own way in this. "Why?"

"She is concerned for you." Mycroft stated baldly. Sometimes the only way to deal with Sherlock was to be completely blunt. He had a difficult time with subtleties. "Mummy hears from John more than she does from you, Sherlock and he's off in Iraq."

"Kuwait, Mycroft." Sherlock corrected. "They're transferring him to Kuwait in three days."

Anyone else would have missed the flash of anger in Mycroft's grey eyes but Sherlock saw it and felt an instants pleasure. The Army was supposed to keep Mycroft apprised of John health and location and they'd obviously been lax in their duties. "Are they?" Mycroft asked softly with a hint of ice.

"I just received the report, sir," A piped up from the doorway.

"Thank you, Astrid." Mycroft said and then turned his attention back to his brother. He would deal with the Army later. "Now then, what were you thinking about so hard that you weren't paying attention to your experiment?"

"The differences between psychopathy and sociopathy and the utter idiocy of the human race and their inability to formulate creative insults," Sherlock answered without concern.

Mycroft leveled a long look at him before replying. "I would assume that you are speaking of your new colleagues at New Scotland Yard."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his older brother. "Of course I am. I never see anyone else do I?"

Mycroft sighed again. He seemed to do that a lot around his brother. "Is it upsetting you? What names do they call you?"

"No, the insults don't bother me at all except that they make no sense really," Sherlock stared off into the distance. "Freak and Psychopath are the most prevalent ones and neither of them fit me."

"Freak and Psychopath?" The icy undertone was back in Mycroft's voice. "Not very original, I agree. Not very nice either."

Sherlock waved that away with a dismissive hand. "That's hardly the point, Mycroft. Are they really that stupid? Do they not know the definitions of those words?"

Mycroft eyed his brother. "I have no idea if they know what they mean, Sherlock. I would assume they call you a freak or a psychopath for any number of reasons."

"What reasons? And if you dare to tell me that they're jealous then you can explain to Mummy why you came to her luncheon with a black eye."

Mycroft couldn't stop the small huff of amusement that escaped him. "But that may be part of it, Sherlock. Hear me out," he held up his hands in a placating gesture. "How many cold cases have you solved since Gregory started giving them to you? Fifteen in three months, wasn't it?"

"Sixteen," Sherlock corrected. "Solved one yesterday."

"There you see?" Mycroft smiled. "They've been working on those cases for years in some cases and you look at the files and have the answers. Of course they're jealous and they want to make you feel bad so they lash out. Another reason is they just don't understand you. Human beings tend to try to demolish what they do not understand and so again they lash out at you." He paused and considered for a moment. "You could always allow Gregory to let them know that you have Asperger's. That might stop some of the insults."

But Sherlock was already shaking his head in denial. "They'll only change they're insults to something else then. Something that will annoy me."

"You could always simply correct them and call yourself a sociopath, Sherlock," Astrid offered. "They're not bright enough to tell the difference and they'd never research it." Her eyes flicked up from her BlackBerry to meet his.

"He's not a sociopath, Astrid," Mycroft said sharply.

"Of course I'm not," Sherlock said. "Still they are idiots. And they wouldn't pity me if they thought I was a sociopath. I think I like that idea, Astrid."

"Always happy to be of service, Sherlock." Astrid nodded.

"John will not be pleased." Mycroft warned.

Sherlock shrugged. "He'll get over it. It's much better than him punching someone because he thinks they've hurt my feelings."

"True. Now, we must go. Mummy would be upset if we were late."


	4. A True Psychopath

**Disclaimer: Still waiting for a call back from BBC saying they're giving me the rights to Sherlock. So for now, not mine.**

**A/N: I actually am not all that happy with this story. It's missing something. Anyway if you have any ideas let me know. I'd really appreciate it.**

A True Psychopath

He glared down at the man lying on the floor. Not only had this stupid soldier beat up his men he'd nearly ruined everything by trying to escape. How dare he have the gall to assume that he could escape?

"You are truly an idiot, Watson," he hissed. "Did you really think I'd allow you to escape? You're the bait. Hadn't you realized? Of course you didn't! You're average, ordinary! I will never understand what Sherlock sees in you."

The man on the tile floor of the locker room remained mute. Hazel eyes glared up at him from a thankfully bruise free face. Sherlock would never believe that his pet had been the mastermind behind the bombings if his face was bruised up from his kidnapping.

He shook his head. There was always the chance that Sherlock wouldn't believe it anyway but that was slim. The soldier had only been Sherlock's roommate for a few months. There was no way that Sherlock knew Watson well enough to trust him.

"Why did he choose you, Dr. Watson?" He asked. "How did he choose you for a roommate? You're nothing special. There are hundreds of other Army doctors crawling around London so why did he choose you? You'll never be a surgeon again, not with that shoulder." He walked around behind his prisoner and laid a hand on said shoulder. "Nerve damage is such a bitch, isn't it?" He squeezed and was disappointed when the only reaction was an indrawn breath. He'd been hoping for a scream.

"Holmes is on the move, sir," one of his men informed him.

He smiled. "Finally, I'm sick of playing with the puppy. I want to meet his master. This should be fun. What do you think, Watson? Will Sherlock feel betrayed when he realizes that the bomber he's been chasing is you? Will he think that he never should have given you any trust at all?"

For the first time in the three hours that he'd been here Watson made a sound that wasn't a grunt of pain. He snorted in genuine amusement.

"What's so funny, Dr. Watson?" He growled. "It amuses you to think that Sherlock could believe you to be me?"

The man on the floor snorted again. "Yes, actually it does." His voice was raspy and hoarse. "Well, that's not what's amusing. I find it absolutely hilarious that you think Sherlock is that stupid."

That brought him up short. "Pardon?"

Angry hazel eyes glared up at him. "Seriously? You really don't get it?" Suddenly those hazel eyes widened and laughter echoed around the room. "You have no idea who I am do you? You really don't have a clue!" The man laughed again. "Well, Jim from IT, let me explain a few things."

"Holmes has arrived, sir," one of his men announced before Watson could continue.

"He can wait," Moriarty bit out. "Explain what to me, Watson?"

But Watson refused to say anything more and simply grinned at him. There was something wrong here.

"I believe you have something of mine. I've come to retrieve it," Sherlock's voice echoed hollowly through the speakers and Watson winced.

"Finally decided that beating you took was painful, Watson?" Moriarty sneered.

Watson shook his head. "Nothing I haven't had before, Jimmy," he said cheerfully. "Just very glad I'm not you right now."

Maybe this was why Sherlock liked this idiot Army doctor; he said the most surprising things. "What?" Moriarty spat out.

The man laughed again only it wasn't amused this time. It seemed maliciously pleased and that irritated him. "That's Sherlock's 'I'm bloody angry now and someone's going to pay' voice. You are in so much trouble, Jimmy boy."

"What's he going to do, talk me to death?" Moriarty sneered again. "He's never given into his violent tendencies before. He won't now."

Watson struggled up to his feet. "I'll let you believe that, if you wish, Jimmy." He took two steps towards Moriarty and then stopped when three of his men pointed their weapons at him. He cocked his head to the side and only smiled. "I know better."

"I am becoming impatient!" Sherlock's voice came through the speakers again even more cutting and cold.

Watson smirked faintly up at the speakers dotted around the locker room. "I'd best get out there. He's vicious when he's cranky." He moved towards the door before Moriarty could say anything. "And you've managed to make him crankier than I ever have."

Moriarty spluttered and glared. "Say only what you're told or I'll blow this entire building to kingdom come."

"With you in it?" Watson snarked even as he accepted the transmitter and put it in his ear. "Somehow I doubt that."

Moriarty was surprised again and he watched as Watson strolled from the room as though he didn't have five pounds of Semtex attached to him.

"If you do not produce my husband this instant—" Sherlock said angrily.

_"Hello, Sherlock,_" Moriarty's voice instructed John at the same time.

"Hello, Sherlock," John said dutifully.

_"Wait! What? Husband?"_ Moriarty shouted in John's ear.

"Wait! What? Husband?" John cheerfully repeated.

Sherlock smiled at John. "Got to you, did he? You're not supposed to get kidnapped anymore John, we have discussed this."

John cocked his head to the side and shrugged a bit painfully but didn't say anything.

"What do you mean husband?" Moriarty yelled as he stormed out of the locker room. "When did that happen?"

Sherlock studied the man before him for a moment and then recognition lit his eyes and he grinned. "About twelve years ago, Jim from IT."

"Twelve years!" Moriarty screeched.

Sherlock shot him a bored look. "I really wish people would do their research." He shook his head and stared astonished for a moment at the red laser spot on John's forehead. "Get that gun off of my husband this instant! Idiots." The red spot blinked out and Moriarty frowned.

"What do you fools think you are doing?" Moriarty screamed. "I'm your Boss, not him!"

Footsteps sounded behind him and he whirled to face a man in a dark suit leaning on an umbrella and pointing a gun right between his eyes. "Actually, Mr. Moriarty, I am in fact the Boss." He looked over at John and Sherlock who had crept closer to his husband while Moriarty was distracted. "All transmissions have been jammed, little brother. Get that Semtex off of your husband, if you would."

Sherlock immediately set to work on unstrapping John from the device, wincing with every hiss of pain from his husband.

"No! What are you doing? Who the Hell are you?" Moriarty screamed at Mycroft.

"Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft told him.

"The most dangerous man in England," John volunteered. "And maybe the world but we're not too sure on that one."

Moriarty continued to scream and fight as three large men in black suits carried him away in handcuffs. "His temper tantrums are worse than yours," Mycroft told Sherlock as they watched the spectacle dispassionately.

"Yes, well, I am not a psychopath, no matter what Anderson says," Sherlock huffed. "Come, John, let's go home."


End file.
